The Trimūrti
by ScarletDeva
Summary: Dick Grayson has now lived at Wayne Manor for two months. And, every day, he was an orphan. But. Every day, there was school work. And Bruce Wayne. (Young Justice inspired but also general Bat canon.)


**The Trimūrti**

By: ScarletDeva

Author's Note: So I know I haven't posted in ages (and yes I did promise a regular posting schedule for Brownout) but Amazon rolled out the Kindle Worlds thing and I wasn't sure what that would do to the fanfiction world so I took a breather. It seems Kindle Worlds is pretty much dead so I feel comfortable stepping back in. Also, a very very bad person convinced me to watch Young Justice and I have all of the Bat Family feels ever.

I think particularly this was inspired by that scene with the basketball one on one and also Superman being a superawful dad.

Anyway. I have Dick Grayson feels and so should everyone else.

As for the title? The Trimūrti (English: 'three forms'; Sanskrit: त्रिमूर्तिः trimūrti), Tri Murati or Trimurati, is a concept in Hinduism "in which the cosmic functions of creation, maintenance, and destruction are personified by the forms of Brahma the creator, Vishnu the maintainer or preserver and Shiva the destroyer or transformer.

* * *

Snow fell outside the study window. It was the first storm since Dick had come to live at Wayne Manor two months prior but the tiny white flakes careening past the chilled glass didn't change anything. He slid a glance at Bruce, hard at work behind his computer, his massive, ornate mahogany desk set between equally massive bookcases, the books a mix of handy references, classic novels and the occasional biography.

"Finish your homework," Bruce said without looking up, somehow always sensing Dick's attention without ever looking up, and Dick flushed and went back to work on word problem number four.

Nothing changed.

Every day, after a very well balanced dinner, Bruce ushered Dick into the study and they worked together, Bruce on Wayne Enterprises business and Dick on school stuff. Sometimes, Alfred silently dropped off cookies. Sometimes he didn't. But the only time there were any voices heard in the room was either when Dick got distracted and Bruce redirected him back to his to do list or when Dick didn't understand something. The latter was when Bruce would walk over, his fancy Italian shoes somehow completely silent on the antique wooden floors, pull up a chair to Dick's own, much smaller desk, and explain the problem in a low, measured voice until Dick understood. Usually it didn't take long but sometimes, sometimes, it took forever and Bruce talked and drew diagrams and very occasionally used props.

It was nothing like Haley Circus. It was nothing like the Grayson trailer with its colors and noises and laughter. And there was this empty hole in Dick's belly that he could never ever fill no matter how many cookies he snuck from under Alfred's tolerant hand.

But.

But he kind of liked the cadence of Bruce's voice. And sometimes he got things wrong just to hear it. He knew it was wrong, knew Bruce was doing important things but Bruce never hurried, never seemed impatient, just explained and explained and explained.

And it was the only time he was like this.

In the two months, he'd seen a lot of Bruce Wayne.

There was the Bruce at work that he got to see every day for two weeks just after he came to live at Wayne Manor and Bruce took him to the office, not wanting to leave him to wander unfamiliar hallways. That Bruce was charming, hard-working although a little forgetful. He never forgot to give Dick something to do though, busywork that always turned out to be more than just busywork. Dick liked being useful even if spending time in the office was largely boring, except when Bruce's executive assistant, Wendy, took him around to visit people and look at new Wayne Tech projects, and Lucius Fox, Bruce's right hand man, snuck him treats - usually sucking candy.

Then there was the Bruce he saw at social events. In the last two months, he'd had to attend two fundraising galas, several luncheons and three gallery openings. That Bruce was gregarious, chatty and somehow slick. He reminded Dick of the circus, busy and bright and... somehow performing. Sometimes, Bruce would look over at him, a little circus boy in a suit that cost more than everything he used to own, and the corner of Bruce's mouth would just twitch and it was as if they shared a secret. Dick didn't know what that secret was but that dark hole in Dick's belly seemed to shrink a little, didn't suck everything around it inside him like a great, hungry beast.

But at home. At home, Bruce Wayne was quiet. Not that shy, retiring quiet that some people possessed and Dick, former circus boy, did not understand. But a still, even quiet that bore the promise of depth and fire. The promise of tempest. Like the one outside the window.

And that Dick understood.

He saw that tempest that day when his parents died, heard this gruff voice that held fire, that was fire, but Dick was a circus kid and he didn't fear fire, even if he felt nothing at all just then, his parents dead, his life over, everything everything everything over. And then there was that voice, and a tall, solidly built man with dark, deep blue eyes that were fire too if fire could be all blue, all ocean depth dark. Suddenly, he found himself behind that man as he faced down the police officer and the social worker and even Haley too, his arm held out as if to shield Dick and, if Dick could feel anything at all, maybe he would have felt curious or relieved or confused but he felt nothing. Not even when the man bundled him up in a car that he just saw in a recent magazine, the most expensive new car that wasn't even out for sale, bundled him into that car with its fine leather smell and heated seats, laid a hand that was somehow both easy and heavy on his hunched shoulder and said, "You're going to stay with me." And if Dick had needed an explanation - what explanation could there be when his parents were dead and the circus was dead and everything was gone - well, it was that low, measured voice that would have given it to him.

He hadn't seen the tempest since. Hadn't heard it.

But the low, measured voice?

He heard it every day.

And as the snow continued to fall, he looked over and said, "I don't understand this problem."

And Bruce began to talk.


End file.
